


Coming Down Is the Hardest Thing

by theladyscribe



Series: Greek Verse [3]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:05:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean dreams of flying sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Down Is the Hardest Thing

Dean dreams of flying sometimes. He doesn’t do it often, and he doesn’t really like it. He doesn’t like having wide open nothing beneath his feet; he prefers the feeling of solid ground under his boots, the knowledge that he’s only got six feet he can fall before hitting the ground.

When he dreams of flying, it’s terrifying, but at the same time, it’s absolutely thrilling. He always has a pair of brilliant bronze wings, massive and bright, like what you’d expect to see on an eagle or something. They extend out from his shoulders, as if attached at his shoulderblades, powerful and strong enough to hold his weight against the emptiness of the air.

The dreams are always the same: he’s flying through the air, the wind rushing past his ears and the sun beating warmly against his back, against his big bronze wings as he beats them and lifts himself higher. He flies over the ocean, the sun sparkling on the water like so many shards of glass on the asphalt along the highway. Higher and higher he flies, and he hits a thermal and cycles upward into the clouds. He breaks out of the top of the clouds and nothing lies between him and the bright-shining sun.

He basks in the warmth on his body and goes even higher until suddenly he realizes his wings cannot take any more. Those glorious bronze wings cave behind him, folding in on themselves, and Dean dives downward, nothing but air between him and the glittering water below. He tries to regain control of his wings, but it is almost as if they have melted back into his body, and he cannot get them open again as he falls head-first toward the water.

He is inches from hitting the hard waves of the ocean when he wakes, pitching out of the motel bed onto the ugly shag carpet, gasping for breath.

Dean dreams of flying sometimes, and it scares him to death.


End file.
